Pantheon
by glitterburn
Summary: Van Helsing/Carl. A walk through Rome gives Carl perspective on his growing relationship with Gabriel.


**Pantheon**

The door of the basilica opened slowly. I put my head around it, looking this way and that, searching the crowds that thronged the vast space of St Peter's Square. I pressed into the edge of the door, anxious and determined to remain unseen.

Behind me, Van Helsing asked, amused: "What are you looking for? There are no vampires here, Carl. Nor monsters, nor werewolves…"

"There's an _ex-_werewolf right beside me," I snapped, glancing back at him for emphasis. "And anyway, in answer to your question: I'm looking for any cardinals or senior prelates who might reasonably object to me sneaking out of the Vatican laboratories on a non-holy day."

"I thought you'd got permission."

"I haven't. I forgot to ask."

"You don't forget anything," he said, and his voice was warm and ticklish on the nape of my neck. I jumped when I felt his hand slide down my back in idle caress, down to give me a gentle slap on my bottom.

"Goodness, I—Van Helsing!" I protested.

He just laughed and pushed past me onto the steps. The weight of the door was heavy on my heels and against my shoulders once he'd gone. He's much stronger than me. Not that I'm a complete weakling; but you know, Renaissance doors were made not just to look pretty, but to withstand a pretty severe battering. I'm sure St Peter approves, even if, at that moment in time, I did not. I pulled the hem of my cassock tight against my legs and skipped free of the door as it groaned shut behind me.

The sound of the latch thumping into place made it clear that, for the rest of the afternoon at least, I was free. I let my skirts fall neatly back into place, and then I took a deep breath of fresh air. Well, by 'fresh' I mean that it was differ­ent to the stifled, underground air that I usually breathed, or to the enclosed, rarefied air of the cloister. It wasn't as fresh as the air we'd breathed in the Carpathians on our mission to hunt down Count Dracula: that air had been cold, sharp, crackling like trodden frost when we exhaled.

No: this was different again. This was Roman air. It carried scents from all over the city—the tang of the orange groves on the Palatine; the muddy ooze of the Tiber; ground coffee and warm marzipan from Piazza Navona; humanity and heated marble and the heady whirl of history from the Forum.

"Ah," I said happily, blinking at the glare of light across the river, "Rome."

Van Helsing turned from halfway down the steps to give me a wry look and then said, "Are you going to stand there all day, or what?"

I tutted. "You do know how to spoil a moment."

"Sorry. My timing's always lousy."

"Not all the time, it isn't," I said, hurrying to join him. It was only after the words had left my mouth that I realised that all sorts of meanings could be deduced from them, and so I blushed furiously and examined the ground.

"Carl," he said, teasing: "what precisely do you mean by that?"

I walked faster across St Peter's Square, keeping my head lowered. I told myself that this was so I wouldn't be recognised by any stray religious that might know me; but in reality, it was easier to ignore Van Helsing if I couldn't see him.

My skirts flicked up with each step. I could see already that my toes were dusty inside their leather sandals. From within the confines of the Vatican I'd seen the change of season. The week before had brought winds as cold as those we'd experienced in Transylvania; quantities of fine reddish sand had been discovered, deposited by the wind on the streets and rooftops. The superstitious said it was dried blood. Our meteorologists sighed and said it was just sand from Africa, and that as a result, Spring would be mild and clement this year. This prediction seemed to cheer the superstitious. I've noticed that it's always a good idea when faced with superstition to have something cheerful to say. It's a distraction to get people to look to the future rather than to have them worrying about the sky falling on their heads.

I could feel rather than see that Gabriel was looking at me. His voice was hopeful when he asked, "At the risk of getting it wrong again, can I ask if now is the right time to discuss our, uh—our relationship?"

"Our working relationship is fine," I said, deliberately mis­understanding him. "You heard Cardinal Jinette yourself. Granted, he wasn't too pleased that the last of the Valerius family are both dead, but that was hardly your fault. Well, apart from… You didn't know what you were doing. You were—"

"I was a werewolf, yes. And Anna gave her life to save mine." Gabriel fixed his gaze on the heavy ramparts of the Castel Sant'Angelo as we approached. "And you would have killed me, had she failed to deliver the antidote. So she is dead, I am no longer a wolf, and you… You don't know what to make of me now, do you, Carl?"

I gave him a sidelong glance. Even when he was trying to pass incognito, he attracted curious looks from all sides. There are many people in Rome who affect bizarre and unusual modes of dress, and believe me, when you've worked for the Vatican all your life, then you'll have seen some pretty strange outfits that have purely religious pur­poses. Anyway, Van Helsing's clothes—it was almost a uniform, really—were unmistakable. He wore black and shades of grey, a lot of heavy wool and cotton and leather, belts and buckles and straps and goodness knows what else. And that hat, of course. It was the hat that made him so instantly recognisable.

The Vatican officials usually made sure that the 'Wanted' posters that featured Van Helsing were taken down. Inside our little state, his presence raised few eyebrows; but in Rome, as in Paris and London and everywhere else he'd been to on business, Gabriel had gained a certain notoriety. At least in Rome, the looks of recognition gave way only to speculation. Nobody had challenged him - or tried to shoot him—at least not to my knowledge, which admittedly is quite limited when it comes to such things.

"No," I said at last in reply. "No, I don't know what to make of you. And I wonder if I should even try."

He huffed and smiled. "Everybody should have at least one person in their life who understands them."

"But—why me?"

Gabriel's smile faded, and he looked at me quite seriously. "I don't know. But it's you. Only you can help me. It has to be you who understands me."

"I could understand if you chose a cardinal, or a bishop, or even a monk—but I'm only a friar!" I protested. "And not a very good example of a friar, at tha—"

"Carl." His tone silenced me. "It's not just a question of me choosing you. Free will doesn't enter this equation. It's—it's like falling in love. It just _is_."

We crossed the river at Ponte Sant'Angelo and then wan­dered through the busy narrow streets. It wasn't often that I was allowed out of the Vatican, and usually I took every opportunity to indulge myself in those little things that the secular can sometimes take for granted. Today I walked past the street vendors selling slices of pizza and netted bags of sugared almonds; past the shops that displayed tempting cakes and elaborately-shaped bread.

I tried to ignore the cats that sat on doorsteps as if they owned the entire building, and the trill of the songbirds that sat in their cages hung from the black-painted balconies high above us. It was all I could do to mind the traffic and the jostle of people as we walked: he with one hand at his waist, ever alert to possible danger, and me mindlessly, afraid of what might follow should he insist on continuing our conversation.

The space of the Piazza Navona was a relief after the noise of the streets, and we stopped for a while at the Fountain of the Four Rivers in the lower part of the square. The breeze shifted and blew a rainbow sheen of water-droplets over us. I blinked at the feel of the spray on my face, and then I edged around the side of the fountain, away from him, under pretence of examining the statue of the Nile. While the other rivers gaze out at the square, the Nile is veiled. The eyes are hidden, but the nose and mouth are visible, set in a noble, patient expression. They say that this represents the fact that, when the fountain was made, the source of the river had not yet been found. It always reminds me of the veiling of the dead.

Van Helsing seemed unmoved by the beauty of the fountain. I'd come to realise that he was unmoved by a lot of things. I don't think it was because of a lack of appreciation. It's not even jaded cynicism—after all, he'd been around for over eighteen hundred years. It's just that… Well. How does one compare man's imagination against the glory of God?

I jumped at the sight of an old priest ambling across the square. He wasn't anybody that I recognised, but automati­cally I felt a hideous guilt seize me. I shouldn't be out of the monastery today. I didn't have permission; and indeed, even if I'd asked for it, I was sure that it wouldn't have been granted. Cardinal Jinette was all for me working alongside Van Helsing again on future assignments, but he didn't approve of any of his lab rats fraternising too openly with a field agent. And Van Helsing was no ordinary field agent.

The old priest saw me. I suppose I did rather stand out, in my Franciscan robes and the way I was trying to appear completely inconspicuous. But he did nothing more alarming than raise his hand in greeting. I nodded and tried to smile. He sketched a benediction at me and then continued on his way.

I was so relieved my legs trembled. I wanted to sit down, but the lip of the fountain wasn't high enough. Instead I drew a deep breath, tasting the slightly stagnant scent of the fountain-spray.

"You know, you're quite safe with me," Gabriel said.

"I don't know if that's strictly true, Van Helsing," I responded. "After all, you are— Well, you are… different."

He sighed and turned away from me, walking a few steps back and forth across the square. For all the restless energy that the body within it contained, his long leather coat scarcely moved. "We have to talk about this. I know you don't want to. But we have to at least discuss it, just this once."

"No, no, no. We don't have to. In fact, I think we should forget that it happened," I said hurriedly. "I propose that—that I go to confession and seek forgiveness, and then I shall forgive you, because—well, you were upset about the assignment and anything a man does when he's upset is—is _un_ _crime passionnel_ and it's perfectly understandable and you're not a bad man for—for taking advantage of—Well. What I mean is, nobody need know about this. Your reputation—"

Gabriel shook his head. "You don't have to bother about my reputation, Carl. I'm hardly a saint."

"Yes," I said. "In fact, you're rather beyond that, aren't you?"

He gave me a weary look. "You know what I mean."

"I do, I do… Only, it's still very difficult to understand, or to _believe_—"

"What, you can't believe that a heavenly being can be made flesh and sent to walk amongst humankind? You're right—it's complete hokum. Nobody would ever believe that."

"Oh, Van Helsing, really!" I sighed, lifting my hands up in despair. "I wish you wouldn't mock the Church."

"I'm not mocking it. It gives me a job. It gives me food and a roof over my head. And… it gives me companionship. You."

"I hardly think that this is an appropriate topic of conversa­tion while we're in public," I said desperately, glancing around in case anybody had overheard.

"I think it's entirely appropriate," Gabriel said. "And we're better off talking about it in public than if we were in the Vatican. You told me yourself that the Inquisition are every­where, and what they miss then Jinette's spies catch, and what _they_ miss, then some other infernal group overhears—and then they all trade their information for other secrets. Damn it, Carl, the safest place to hide is in full view of the enemy!"

"They're not my enemy," I said, softly.

He looked exasperated. "No. But if they knew about us, then they could make life very difficult for you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said stubbornly, turning my head.

"I thought I was the one with the bad memory."

I could hear the laughter in his voice, and I glanced back to glare at him. He looked utterly unrepentant, so I put my back to him and stared down into the water running off the fountain. The sunlight sparked from it, sharp as diamonds, as the breeze rippled the surface. Tiny wavelets peaked and troughed. It reminded me of the voyage home from Transyl­vania.

The Adriatic had been calm when we began the crossing. I remembered looking out of the cabin window at the carpet of light unwinding behind us, cut with the foam of our wake and dotted with shrieking seagulls. I remembered the evening when the wind rushed from the mountains of the north and stirred the sea, and all calm vanished into confusion. I remembered the taste of salt on Gabriel's lips when he kissed me for the first time.

I should have denied him, but the howl of the wind and the snap of cordage had drowned out my protests. Besides, I didn't protest very much, or even loudly. It had felt right, at the time. I had been the one to pull away, to take his hand and draw him across the deck and into the shelter of the cabin.

It had been dark down there: dark and cold. I remembered the crushing sound of waves against the hull and how it made me hold onto him tightly. I was afraid to let go, afraid of drowning, even as we kissed into a kind of oblivion far more dangerous than the stormy sea.

I remembered the motion of the ship, how it made our own movements easier. Moments of greater intimacy came back to me: the tightening of his fingers against mine; the blurred scent of his sweat; the taste of coppery blood mixing with the sea-salt when I bit his lip. I remembered the discomfort of the hard wooden cot beneath our bodies, too narrow for two—and then the discomfort was forgotten.

More than this, I remembered the blank end of passion, the glimpse of the void that we strived towards time and again: the darkness over the face of the deep where God moves in silence.

Strange things happen during storms. I'd thought about it a lot since then, searching for a reason for my behaviour. I'd concluded that the raw electricity in the air from the flickers of lightning somehow created a magnetism that made it impossible for us to resist one another. An attraction, yes: but the kind of attraction one lodestone has for another. There was nothing more to it, or so I reasoned to myself.

Of course, that didn't explain why we continued to take pleasure in one another the next day when the storm had passed, and indeed for the rest of the voyage. I can only think that it was a kind of madness, and I'd run from it—and from him—as soon as we were back in Italy.

Gabriel's voice broke into my reverie. "Are you all right?" he asked. "You seem a little… flushed."

"I'm fine," I said, although that was a lie. I burned for him, just as I had on board the ship. Just as I had every day since we'd come ashore. But what I wanted was forbidden, impos­sible. It would never work.

"It's the sun. That's all." I bent down and scooped up some of the water from the fountain in my cupped hands, and flung it at my face. The shock of it was cold against my heated skin, but instead of easing my arousal it merely spurred it on.

"Damn it," I muttered.

"Carl?" Gabriel came closer, concerned now. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"How can it ever be all right? You're an angel," I said as I looked up at him: unable to shake the awe and desperation from my voice. "You're an archangel, and I'm just a man. It's illogical. It makes no sense."

Van Helsing shrugged. "At least I chose a religious. I could have gone for a secular lover, you know."

I winced at his flippancy. "Princess Anna would have been a good match."

"She's dead. And besides, I chose you."

I looked into the bowl of the fountain. I could feel the water trickling down my face like tears, and for a moment my vision blurred, my eyelashes spiked with damp. "Did you care for her at all?"

"Yes."

"Am I… your consolation?" I asked, unhappy at having to ask the question.

Gabriel stared at me. "No, Carl; absolutely not. Don't think that way." He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "Strange: I think I could almost be possessive. Angels should love equally; they should display no favouritism unless they're instructed by God to do so. I should give everybody a chance."

"And yet you don't," I said.

"Of course not," he said with a laconic smile. "After all, I'm human now."

We resumed our walk, leaving the fountain to play cease­lessly in our wake. Through more narrow streets, and then we came to another square, one surrounded by terracotta-roofed houses with egg-yolk-yellow painted facades. Domi­nating the space was the church of Santa Maria ad Martyres, known to all Romans simply as the Pantheon. Of all the churches in the city, this was probably my favourite. Inside, it gave the visitor a feeling of dizziness—the sense that God's presence was overwhelming. Not bad for a pagan temple, and I said as much to Van Helsing.

"It's hard to believe that this was dedicated by the emperor Hadrian seventeen hundred-odd years ago," I began.

He gave me a pointed look as we crossed the downward-sloping piazza and walked up the step beneath the portico. "I don't need the tourist experience."

"No," I said. "Quite right. Of course you don't. You were probably here, weren't you, when they built it."

"Do I detect a trace of sarcasm there, Carl?"

I linked my fingers together prayerfully and raised my gaze to Heaven. "No."

Van Helsing snorted and shook his head. He held open the door to the Pantheon for me to pass, and then he removed his hat before he stepped over the threshold.

There were a few people inside, but they paid us no heed. I wandered across the black and white marble floor, gazing with wonder at the riot of coloured, veined stone that faced the interior up as far as the domed roof. The entire dome was Roman concrete mixed with tufa, light and airy as it reached up to the sky. At the apex, piercing the dome, was the oculus: an eye, a window to Heaven: or so it seemed on that day, with the sunlight streaming through in a beam of pure white gold.

Van Helsing nodded towards the altar in a more prosaic genuflection, and then he continued our conversation. Obviously nothing would stop him from pursuing this discussion: not the open space of Piazza Navona or even the hallowed ground of a house of God.

"What is it that you object to—having a man as a lover or having an angel as a lover?" he asked. "Or is it just me that you find objectionable?"

I huffed at that, looking away from the oculus to glance at him. He looked different without his hat on. He looked more human. On board ship, he hadn't worn his hat at all for three days. One doesn't need a hat in bed. The memory made me say sharply, "Properly, of course, I should have no lover at all."

"Well, yes. Properly. But you can call it divine intervention if it makes it easier." Gabriel paused, and then smiled at me. "You do want to continue this relationship, don't you?"

"It's a strange relationship," I said. "I'm not sure what to think. It's—oh, Van Helsing, you're right. It's this business of you being an angel. I really can't—I mean, I should believe it. I _do_ believe it, but it's just so… unbelievable."

I wasn't sure what I was trying to say, and so I ran to a halt, confused. I stared at the altar in its grand arched niche, flanked by pink Corinthian columns and white marble statues, and I stared in particular at the crucifix.

"Can't you just accept me as a man?" Gabriel asked, gently.

"Yes. No." I looked up at him. "Van Helsing, I'm a friar! I should believe in angels without question, as a matter of faith. And yet, knowing you—and _knowing_ you—it raises too many questions."

"Carl." He came closer and touched my face, stroked the back of his gloved fingers over my cheek. "I remember very little about my past. I won't allow myself to get caught up in it. Can you try not to do the same thing? Forget that I was an angel, once. I'm a man, now. Just a man, as you are."

I pulled away. "But you're not. You never will be _just_ a man, Gabriel. You'll always be in part angelic. Even if you do look like a demon, sometimes."

"Angels, demons, men—we're all the same," he said. "We're all just reflections of God. It's infinite. One day you shall be an angel, and I shall be a demon, and then perhaps we will both be men again. That is what God is: infinite change, infinite possibility."

I blinked at him. He seemed brighter than the light pouring through the oculus, and it frightened me a little. My silence and doubtful look seemed to inspire him, for he grabbed me and turned me around to face the wall.

"There." Gabriel pointed to one of the statues. "God. And there," he pointed again, this time to another statue: "God." He pointed at the marble floor: "God," and then up at the beam of light through the oculus, and then at various other things around the Pantheon, naming each one as God. Finally he turned me to face him, and pointed to himself; and then he put his hands on my shoulders. "God," he said, quietly.

I stepped back, half-panicked, away from him. "This is heresy."

"No," said Gabriel, "it's the truth."

"The truth as you see it, yes."

"Well. How many sides does truth have?"

"Two," I answered. "Sometimes three."

"Wrong. It has no sides at all." He waved a hand at the wall surrounding us. "Just like this church, this temple. A perfect circle, with no beginning or end. You can measure a circle from any point: there is no right or wrong way to do it. It's infinite. God is exactly the same. This place was built to all the gods; now it's dedicated to one God. But it's the same thing: one God, many gods, mankind, the Heavenly Host—we're all connected. It doesn't matter that I am—I was—an angel. It doesn't matter that you're a man. We can continue. You will not be struck down for loving me."

I sniffed. "You are too bold," I said, although I didn't deny what he'd said. The last part of it, anyway. I wasn't so sure about the first part. "You make too many assumptions. And your philosophy sounds suspiciously pagan to me."

"Angels—and God—are beyond religion."

"Well, yes. I can see that." I thought of my friends and colleagues in the laboratories—Chen the Buddhist and Nuri the Moslem; and in the cloister I'd seen the coterie of black-robed, long-bearded Orthodox who walked the colonnades together in silence, and the colourful, exuberant fire-wor­shippers from Persia. Not that we all worshipped together. It wouldn't seem right, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised that it _would_ be right. But…

"But we—mankind, I mean—we need religion. It gives us a responsibility. It gives _me_ a responsibility, anyway. Other­wise I'm not sure what I'd do."

"Mankind likes being boxed in," Gabriel said. "And then he likes to complain against it."

"I don't."

"Really? I know otherwise, remember."

I blushed.

"It's always been the same. But God—now, God isn't about containment. God is about change. His angels are agents of change."

I shook my head, frowning. "Religion doesn't contain," I said. "It brings freedom and understanding and peace through grace."

"It confines you."

"That's different! I chose this life. The Church doesn't force me into doing anything against my will."

"I didn't say that it did," Gabriel said, mildly. "But you know your history, Carl. You know it better than I can remember it. You know damn well that organized religion has been responsible for a great many ills in this world."

"I'm sure they meant well at the time," I said, rather pathetically.

Gabriel faced me, his expression serious. "Listen to me: Nearly nineteen hundred years ago, I was sent to greet a young woman named Mary and to tell her that the child she was carrying would be the Son of the Highest, that he was the heir to the throne of David and that his kingdom would be without end. Four hundred years ago, I was sent to save a young Augustinian priest named Martin Luther and to tell him to reform the Church."

"The Annunciation of Luther," I said, half-joking, half-bitter. "And look what happened! Our priests have not long been allowed back into England, and more than half of our houses across France and Germany were destroyed, and—"

"And nearly nineteen hundred years ago, a man—a _man_, Carl, not an angel!—was executed—and his death inspired thousands to follow his teachings, and thousands of them died in defence of it. Change, Carl. It's all about change."

I sighed. I rather wished that I'd stayed inside the laboratory where nothing changes; where everything, even the air, is the same. It was safe there, even though—I had to admit—it had seemed quite boring when Gabriel wasn't around. I won­dered if it would be so very bad if I saw him more often. Of course, I knew I wouldn't be content with just seeing him and talking with him. I wondered if it would be so very bad if I were to go to bed with him again. Surely it wouldn't hurt.

I looked up at the light from the oculus. It had been warming the marble floor for centuries. It had seen both pagan and Christian worshippers. The light, the oculus, the whole Pantheon—it endured. It had changed, gone with the tide rather than stood against it. That was why the Pantheon, of all of the ancient buildings in Rome, had remained intact for so long. It accepted change. And if the Pantheon could do it, then so could I.

Theology was never my strong point, anyway.

**The End**

**Originally published in **_**Horizontal Mosaic**_** 8 (Blackfly Press)**


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